


The Sisters Stark

by Maester_Aemon_Heterodyne



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming of Age, Expect bad things they come with the territory, F/F, F/M, Gen, I mean really this is an ASoIaF fic you're reading, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content, Stark-centric, Violence, War, sister relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:40:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5514308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maester_Aemon_Heterodyne/pseuds/Maester_Aemon_Heterodyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Arya Stark are twins, and though born only four minutes apart are as different as the sun and moon. Sansa, the elder of the two, is a perfect lady, eager to please, full of songs and stories, and the image of her Lady Mother, where Arya takes after her aunt Lyanna, wild and willful, and a lover of martial pursuits. Their childhoods are spent bickering over anything and everything, yet the twins share the strong bond of family and understanding, and when the demons of the Seven Hells come to haunt the Stark family, they do not even for a second turn their backs on one another. For all their constant disagreements, there is no question that the sisters Stark shall work together to survive the clash of kings and the wars for the Iron Throne.</p><p>The saga of Ice and Fire, as told from the perspectives of the Sisters Stark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The King's Arrival (Sansa I)

“Gods, Arya! You almost missed it! They’ll be here in only a few moments!” Sansa whispered concernedly. She couldn't even begin to guess where her sister had been. 

“I’m not late, am I, sister? You worry too much,” said Arya, rolling her eyes.

Sansa sighed with exasperation. Her twin was almost invariably late for important things, and none were more so than the arrival of most of King Robert Baratheon’s court. She was so flippant about it too, as if important things never mattered. At least now she was actually here.

But Arya was right: she was on time, if just, and actually looked decent for once, so there wasn’t so much to worry about, not truly. There wasn’t much time though; Sansa could already hear the sounds of hooves and wheels outside the gate growing closer every moment.

The royal party poured through the gates in a river of polished gold and steel, glinting in the sunlight, a cascade of knights and bannermen and horses and servants . Sansa thought she recognised a few of the riders, such as the tall, golden-haired Ser Jaime Lannister and the rather elderly Ser Barristan Selmy, and there was no mistaking the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. At the head of the column was a shockingly fat man with black hair whom Sansa did not know.

That was, at least, until the fat man jumped off his horse and shouted “Ned!” to her father, and Sansa realised that this must be the King. He was not what she expected. A ought to be tall, and muscular, and youthful, and dashing, or maybe an old and wise greybeard, not a shaggy, obese oaf. Father had always described him as a mighty warrior, but this man looked like someone overly fond of feasting and deep in his cups for years. _This is all terribly wrong_ , she thought. _Maybe the Queen and the princes and princesses will be more like they’re supposed to._

“Your Grace, Winterfell is yours,” Father said to the King.

By then the others were dismounting as well, and grooms were coming forward for their mounts. Robert’s queen, Cersei Lannister, walked in on foot with their children. The wheelhouse they’d ridden in, a huge double-decked carriage of polished oak and gilded metal, pulled by fourteen heavy draft horses, was far too wide to pass through the castle gate. The Queen! She was the radiant golden image of everything a queen ought to be, unlike her husband. Her children were all beautiful, and looked just like her. Father knelt to kiss the queen’s ring, and the king embraced Mother like a long-lost sister.

King Robert moved on to the children. “You must be Robb,” he said to her eldest brother. Robb nodded. Sansa was next by age. “You’re a beauty,” he said to her, and she couldn’t help but beam. He gave Arya a strange look, as if remembering something, and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Arya," she replied. The King stared at her uncomfortably for another few moments before moving on to Bran.

“Ah! Show me those muscles. Yes, you’re going to be a soldier someday lad, I can tell!” Bran looked proud, but Arya pouted visibly. Knighthood was as much her dream as Bran’s, but she was a girl and no one ever took her seriously. Sansa thought her foolish and ridiculous for it, but even she couldn’t help but smile when her twin talked so passionately about warrior princesses.

The King simply nodded approvingly at their youngest brother, Rickon, before seemingly losing interest. He turned back to Father and said, “Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects.” Father and the King left in the direction of Winterfell's crypts. Sansa knew why; Robert had been in love with her aunt Lyanna Stark, and must still if he wanted to see her so soon. Sansa thought it all terribly romantic. 

The crowd in the courtyard started to break up then, and everyone started making their way inside with Mother's guidance. Sansa made her way to her chambers, and began to prepare for the feast in the King's honour that was to come that night.

 

 


	2. Needlework (Arya I)

Arya's stitches were crooked again. 

Sansa's, of course, were perfect. Arya sighed. Everything ladylike Sansa excelled at. She could sing beautifully, dance perfectly, dress prettily, and of course, sew and stitch expertly. She'd gotten all of Mother's beautiful Tully looks, from her lush red hair to her high flawless cheekbones. Arya looked, most said, like Father, with her lusterless dark hair and solemn face, and according to Jeyne Poole, the steward Vayon Poole's daughter, like a horse, or like a boy. She preferred to say she looked like her brother Jon. Some told her that she looked like Aunt Lyanna, but that didn't make sense, since Lyanna was always said to be beautiful, and Arya was not. 

At hearing her sigh, Sansa turned to her. "Oh, Arya," she said, putting down her own flawless work and trying to help with Arya's, "look, you've got to go like this- here, let me show you-"

But all she succeeded in doing was causing Arya to fumble and stab herself with the needle. Anger and dismay flooded through her. Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole stared down their noses at her. Princess Myrcella, the Stark household's guest at sewing practice, gave a sympathetic look. Beth Cassel, the old master-at-arms' granddaughter, looked away. Sansa tried to apologise, but it was of no use. After being here all morning while Septa Mordane cooed over the beauty of the other ladies' stitching, Arya had to escape. There was nothing for it but to run. 

Rising abruptly, she put down her stitching work and went for the door. 

"Where do you think you're going, little Lady?" asked Septa Mordane. "Come back here!" she shouted when Arya ignored her. "Don’t you take another step! Your lady mother will hear of this. In front of our royal princess too! You’ll shame us all!” 

Arya turned to the Princess, managed a stiff masculine bow and said, "by your leave, my Lady."

Myrcella seemed confused, and looked to the other ladies in the room for guidance, though they offered nothing but scowls and snickers. But if she was uncertain, Septa Mordane was not. “Just where do you think you are going, Arya?” the septa demanded.

Arya glared at her. “I have to go shoe a horse,” she said sweetly, taking a brief satisfaction in the shock on the septa’s face. Then she whirled and made her exit, running down the steps as fast as her feet would take her.

Nymeria was waiting for her in the guardroom at the base of the stairs. She bounded to her feet as soon as she caught sight of Arya. Arya grinned. The wolf pup loved her, even if no one else did. They went everywhere together, and Nymeria slept in her room, at the foot of her bed. If Mother had not forbidden it, Arya would gladly have taken the wolf with her to needlework. Let Septa Mordane complain about her stitches then. 

The wolf pup, already the size of a normal hound, nipped eagerly at her while Arya untied her. Once freed, she embraced the wolf warmly. Nymeria had bright yellow eyes, which when they caught the sunlight gleamed like two golden coins. Arya had named her after the warrior queen of the Rhoynar, who had led her people across the Narrow Sea to conquer Dorne. That had been a great scandal, one that Arya would cherish for a long time to come. Sansa, of course, had named her pup “Lady.” Arya made a face at the thought and hugged the wolfling tighter. Nymeria licked her ear, making her giggle. 

By now, Mother must certainly know of her transgression, so she could not go back to her room without being caught. But she had other plans anyhow. Her brothers had all been conscripted to go and spar with the Princes Joffrey and Tommen in the training yard, and that had been where Arya had wanted to be today, not sit with all the  _ladies_ and practise  _stitching._  

Running nimbly down to the yard, she found her brother Jon watching from the sides, and decided to join him. He didn't seem to notice her at first, being absorbed deeply in the action unfolding in the yard. Not until Ghost, his silent and pale white wolf, already larger than his littermates, stirred from his position by Jon's side to greet Nymeria, did Jon turn to her. "Shouldn't you be working your stitches, little sister?" he asked. 

"Yes," she said, making a face at him, "but I wanted to see them fight." 

He smiled warmly, laughing a bit. "Come here, then."

She climbed up on the windowsill next him to look at the unfolding action. To her disappointment, however, it was the younger boys drilling. Bran had been so heavily padded that he looked like he'd been made to serve as a featherbed, and Tommen, already plump, looked positively round, and more than anything like a baby duck waddling about. They were huffing and puffing and hitting at each other with padded wooden swords under the watchful eye of old Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms, a great stout barrel of a man with magnificent white cheek whiskers. Perhaps a dozen or more spectators, among them Robb and Theon Greyjoy, stood around them, giving encouragement and trading barbs with one another. Given the tired way the two staggered slowly, they had been fighting for some time. 

"A shade more exhausting than sewing." observed Jon. 

"A shade more fun than sewing," retorted Arya. Jon laughed and mussed her hair. She smiled. The two had always been close. Of all of Father's children, only she and Jon had Stark colouring and features. Robb, Bran, Sansa, and Rickon all had Mother's fiery hair and easy, bright smile. "Why aren't you with them?" she asked. 

"Because bastards aren't allowed to damage Princes," said Jon. "Bruises on Princely flesh must come from trueborn swords."

"I wish I could be down there. I'm four years older than Bran, almost twelve, and I can fight much better than him."

Jon looked her over with all his fourteen-year-old wisdom. “You’re too skinny,” he said. He took her arm to feel her muscle. Then he sighed and shook his head. “I doubt you could even lift a longsword, little sister, never mind swing one.” This was half-true. Arya was rather skinny, and just like her sister Sansa, she was taller than most eleven-year-old girls ought to be, making her look rather more like a street-urchin boy or some like instead of a proper highborn lady. However, she was, in fact, able to lift a longsword, though admittedly it was heavier than she liked. Her face soured. 

"Do you see Prince Joffrey, over there?" Jon said. She looked about briefly, scanning the yard. He stood apart from the others, amongst a group of boys and men she supposed must be southron squires and knights. "Look at the arms on his coat. The Lannister lion, beside the stag." An ornate shield had been embroidered on the prince’s padded surcoat. No doubt the _needlework_ was exquisite. The arms were divided down the middle; on one side was the crowned stag of the royal House, on the other the lion of Lannister. "The Lannisters are proud. You would think that the royal sigil would be enough, yet he makes his mother's House the equal of his father's."  

"The woman is important too!" 

Jon chuckled. "Aye. Perhaps you should do the same thing, little sister. Wed Tully to Stark in your arms."

"A wolf with a trout in its mouth? That would look silly. Anyways, if a girl isn't allowed to fight, why should she have a coat of arms?"

"Girls get the arms but not the swords. Bastards get the swords but not the arms. I did not make the rules, little sister." 

There came a shout from the yard. Prince Tommen was rolling in the dirt, struggling to get up in all his padding. He looked if anything like an upturned turtle, unable to right himself. Bran stood over him with a raised wooden sword, ready to attack Tommen once risen. 

"That's enough for now," said Ser Rodrick. "Well fought. Lew, Donnis, help these boys out of their armour. Robb, Prince Joffrey, would you care for another round?"

The bored-looking Joffrey yawned. "No. This is a game for children, Ser Rodrick," he said haughtily. 

Theon Greyjoy gave a sudden bark of laughter. “You are children,” he said harshly. 

"Robb is a child. I am a  _Prince._ A Prince has better things to do than swat at Starks with wooden playthings," he retorted. 

“You got more swats than you gave, Joff,” Robb said. “Are you afraid?”

Prince Joffrey looked at him. “Oh, terrified,” he said, "you’re so much older.” Some of the Lannister men laughed.

Jon looked down on the scene with a frown. “Joffrey is truly a little shit,” he told Arya.

"What would you suggest?" asked Ser Rodrick. 

"Live steel," said the Prince. 

"Done!" barked Robb. "You'll-" 

"-Be doing nothing of the sort," interrupted Ser Rodrick. "Live steel is too dangerous, and I will not permit it. You may use blunted tourney swords, if you like." 

The burned man who'd come with Joffrey to the yard advanced on Ser Rodrick. "This is your Prince," he said. "Who are you to tell the Prince what he may use?"

"Master-at-arms here at Winterfell, and you'd best not forget it."

"Are you training women here?"

"I am training  _knights._ They will have proper steel when they are ready, when they are of age."

The burned man looked at Robb. “How old are you, boy?”

“Fourteen,” Robb said.

“I killed a man at twelve. You can be sure it was not with a blunt sword.”

Arya could see Robb bristle like a cat; his pride was wounded. He turned on Ser Rodrik. “Let me do it. I can beat him.”

“Beat him with a tourney blade, then,” Ser Rodrik said.

Joffrey shrugged. “Come and see me when you’re older, Little Stark. If you’re not too old.”

There was laughter from the Lannister men. Robb’s curses rang through the yard. Arya covered her mouth in shock. Theon Greyjoy seized Robb’s arm to keep him away from the prince. Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers in dismay.

Joffrey feigned a yawn and turned to his younger brother. “Come, Tommen,” he said. “The hour of play is done. Leave the children to their frolics.” That brought more laughter from the Lannisters, more curses from Robb. Ser Rodrik’s face was beet-red with fury under the white of his whiskers. Theon kept Robb locked in an iron grip until the princes and their party were safely away.

Jon watched them leave, and Arya watched Jon. His face had grown as still as the pool at the heart of the godswood. Finally he climbed down off the window. “The show is done,” he said. He bent to scratch Ghost behind the ears. The white wolf rose and rubbed against him.

At this point, Nymeria made a noise, and Arya turned to find that Sansa and Lady had found her. "Arya," said her sister, "Mother and Septa Mordane are looking for you. They're in your chambers, I think. If you want to escape them I recommend you not go there straight away."

Arya's face soured, but she didn't reply.

"Look, Arya, I know as well as anyone how little you like needlework, but running out in front of the Princess was really quite rude. I you keep this kind of thing up Mother will have you sewing and stitching all through Winter," Sansa said.

"When the spring thaw comes, you'll wake up from the darkness to find a needle still frozen into your fingers!" taunted Jon. He and Sansa snickered. Arya narrowed her eyes. 

Jon and Sansa were not so close to one another as Arya was to either of them. Though they got on well, Sansa often had trouble in getting around the fact that he was a bastard. But, especially in the last year or two, she'd been warming to him significantly, finally deciding him her true brother. Fraternising with her father's bastard had become her one great concession to impropriety. Mother, who'd always disliked and mistrusted Jon, had not thawed a great deal to him, but for her daughters' sake had simply become more rigidly formal than openly cruel.  

Arya really didn't want to go and face punishment, but she knew she had to. She'd been gone too long already, and the longer she hid, the sterner her penance. Sighing, she rose, and went for her room, Nymeria at her heels.

 

 


	3. Family Matters (Sansa II)

Arya, sometimes, simply did not know when to shut up. She'd been pestering Sansa about Prince Joffrey, seemingly convinced that he wasn't a proper Prince, that he was somehow cruel or spoiled or 'bratty' to use her words.

"Oh come off it Arya! He's a true gallant Prince and you know it! He's the image of his Lady Mother," Sansa said.

"Sansa, he’s a spoiled little shit! There's nothing _gallant_ or _princely_ about him! And the stupid Queen's even worse!" Arya said, exasperation hardening her tone.

"Arya! Language! And don't speak about Prince Joffrey like that! He's my betrothed, and someday he's going to be your good-brother."

"So? He's only nice to you because you're marrying him, stupid. He's a right shit to everyone else."

Arya was typically stubborn, especially when it came to bickering with Sansa, yet her inexplicable insistence that Joffrey was horrible had an unusual strength and passion. The twins had had this conversation, almost word for word, at least once a day since the night of the King's arrival.

The two were sitting in Sansa's chamber getting ready for a luncheon with Princess Myrcella. All of the King's party save the Queen, Princess, Prince Tommen, Ser Jaime Lannister, and a few ladies' maids, had gone off with Father and Robb and Jon for the hunt. When this had been announced Arya had sulked for over an hour, knowing that she of course would not be able to go, though the desperately wanted to. Instead, they were eating lunch with the Princess. No matter how much Sansa might enjoy Myrcella's company Arya would always find such events terribly dull.

She'd come to Sansa's room to work on the finer aspects of looking like a lady. Arya, though ever reluctantly, was usually able to get herself dressed properly as a lady, but when it came to hair and rouge and other details she was hopeless and Sansa an expert. Despite her contempt for anything womanly, Arya could actually be rather insecure about her lack of feminine qualities and often came to Sansa for help, though sometimes even then she resisted learning, as she did with needlework, or dancing. Sansa knew she could one day be good at dancing, too, perhaps better than herself, but disdained it too much to listen to her. 

"He's a Prince, Arya! He's gallant and regal just like Princes are supposed to-" started Sansa, but Arya didn't let her finish.

"This isn't some stupid song! The King is a fat drunk, the Queen's snotty, the Prince is a spoiled shit, and even the the knights are all a load of noisy pricks! How are you so blind?" she shouted.

This is not a song. Arya could be ofttimes unreasonably cynical, but something about that phrase, one she had repeated often in the last few weeks, always struck an odd chord somewhere deep within Sansa. It was often enough to give her pause, as it did then.

When she failed to respond immediately, her sister filled the quiet. "Please, Sansa, just don't be stupid."

Since arguing with Arya seemed to be pointless, and given that the two were about to be called to dine with the Princess, Sansa decided to compromise. "Alright, Arya. I'll be careful. But please, don't call Joffrey a... a..."

"A shit?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Sansa." Arya hugged her sister.

When they quieted down for a longer moment, they noticed that their wolves were deeply upset by something. Lady and Nymeria were both agitated, and paced about as if threatened. Sansa, too felt that something was suddenly very off.

There came then three long hard raps on the door, signaling that the time had come. Sansa and Arya both jumped sharply in reaction and ran to the door, opening it, but did not find one of the Queen's ladies as they had been told would escort them. It was instead Harald, a young guardsman of the castle, a tall, gangly youth with a stutter. He looked distressed and nervous, as if worried.

"M'ladies, I- I- I need you to come with me," he said, "it's Bran, h- he-"

"He what?" asked Arya, now visibly concerned herself.

"H- he f- fell, m'ladies. The Lady Catelyn n- needs you in his chambers." Sansa’s heart skipped a beat. Bran was hurt?

Arya bolted almost before he was done speaking, Nymeria close on her heels. Sansa was not so impulsive, but rushed as quickly as propriety allowed. If Bran was hurt, that would have to take precedence over a luncheon with the Princess, though it was not without regret that Sansa abandoned that plan.

When she arrived at Bran’s rooms, she found him in a sorry state, appearing small, frail, and nearly bloodless. He was obviously seriously hurt. By his side was Maester Luwin, who tended to him, placing a rag on his forehead periodically. The look of worry on the maester’s face did not reassure her in the slightest.

Sitting by the bed in chairs were Mother and Arya. Mother stared with strange and hollow eyes Bran, as if she couldn’t believe what he saw. Arya sat with a look of desperate worry, as did Nymeria by her feet. Nobody said a word as she entered.

Sansa sat down between her mother and sister at Bran’s side, holding their hands, and the three of them sat there in silence for several minutes while the maester attended to him. While he worked, the room took on an unnatural cold and stillness. Nothing else in the world seemed to exist while she watched the maester attend her little brother, and even that had a strange unreal quality to it. Sansa was nearly too stunned to think. Bran was hurt. Her brother was hurt, and there was nothing she could do about it. 

Though she’d spent her life watching Jon and Robb beat each other with sticks and tourney swords, they’d never truly injured been injured beyond bruises. The worst harm any of the Starks had befallen in her lifetime was when Jon had broken his right arm after falling off his horse about a year and a half ago. Arya devoted nearly all her time to working with Maester Luwin, fixing Jon's arm and helping him with things that involved two hands. Sansa had decided to help her twin with him too, even abandoning worship in the little Sept on one occasion, and had in doing so grown to know Jon better.

It was after that that Sansa had started to feel as if he was her proper brother, not merely her father's bastard as she’d felt when she was younger. She knew mother was not happy with this, and sometimes she herself felt conflicted over Jon, but she couldn’t see him as other than her own. She’d grown to know both Robb and Bran better for it as well, since they were closer naturally to Jon than to her. 

After what seemed an eternity, the maester finally looked up to the three women, and said, “there’s nothing for us do now but wait. My ladies, I must ask you to leave Bran in peace.”

While Sansa rose slowly and cautiously to go, Mother said, in a tight, stern tone, “I will not leave my son.”

“My Lady, I-”

“Maester Luwin, I will not be leaving this room.”

Maester Luwin sighed, closing his eyes. “Then stay,” he said, then turned to the twins, "but I must insist that the two of you go.”

Sansa expected her sister to make a fit about it, but she didn’t. Quite the opposite in fact. Arya, Nymeria trailing, went out the room quickly, and tugged Sansa’s hand briefly on the way out, signaling for her to follow.

Arya headed straight back to Sansa’s chamber. When her twin and both their wolves were inside, she locked the door. “Sansa, something’s wrong here,” she said.

“Yes, Arya. Bran fell off the walls, and now he’s hurt. Of course something’s wrong,” Sansa said.

“But Bran never falls. He’s never fallen, not once.”

Thinking on it, Sansa could not in fact remember a single time that Bran had fallen. Even on the ground, he had excellent balance, and rarely ever tripped or stumbled. But climbing was dangerous; Mother was right about that. He easily could’ve fallen, especially if he were climbing some unfamiliar wall or tower.

“What are you trying to say?” she asked, confused somewhat.

“What if Bran didn’t fall? What if he was pushed?”

“You can’t be serious. Who would want to push Bran off a tower?”

“I don’t know! How would I know? But Bran doesn’t fall. Something must have happened.”

“Arya, you’re being perfectly ridiculous.”

“Sansa! Please, believe me. This feels wrong. Please, just, be careful.”

Arya could be so foolish sometimes. Bran had fallen; Joffrey was a proper Prince. How could she not see these things?

And yet, in the back of her head, there was a strange, nagging voice. _This doesn’t feel like it should._ Sansa was going to become a Princess, and her brother had merely fallen. _But it doesn’t feel like it should._ Perhaps there was something to what Arya was saying, all of it. It wasn’t easy an easy notion to entertain, but there was a certain power to her words. _'T_ _his isn't some stupid song.'_

“I… I’ll be careful,” said Sansa, after a nervous moment.

Arya didn’t look relieved, but swooped forwards to embrace her wholly and tightly, as if afraid she might disappear. 

 

 


	4. Parting Gifts (Arya II)

Arya had never understood quite why ladies had to act the way that they did, or rather were required to. There didn’t seem to be any _point_ to any of it. Why did she have to curtsy? Why did she have to wear stupid gowns, when trousers were so much more useful? And comfortable? Why did she have to sit inside all day learning the names of Houses and their members, or how to bloody stitch and sew? What did any of it do for her?

Ladies’ clothing, in particular, seemed utterly useless. Chest-constricting dresses that were impossible to run in, shoes that were useless out of doors and hurt her feet besides, and a bunch of inconvenient jewelry that decked her wrists, ears, neck, and even her ankles; all a waste of effort, it seemed.

More pressingly, why she have to pack so much of it? Arya was in her room, packing a polished ironwood chest that was far bigger than she was full of all the various inconvenient articles of clothing more that came with being a lady. Nymeria was helping; Arya would only have to point, and her wolf would run and ever so gently grab a piece of silk, or a tunic, or a pair of shoes, and bring to Arya for packing. She probably would only need a few dresses and a couple pairs of trousers and a few tunics for the road, but Mother and Septa Mordane had insisted she pack what amounted to her entire wardrobe, along with several new things that had been given to her especially for the trip.

A knock came at the door. When she went to open it she found Jon on the other side, smiling sadly. He carried something in a bundle of rags under his arm. At the sight of him, Nymeria sat and barked. Arya threw her skinny arms tight around his neck. “I was afraid you were gone,” she said, her breath catching in her throat. “They wouldn’t let me out to say good-bye.”

“What did you do now?” he asked, amused. Arya disentangled herself from him and made a face as Jon and Ghost entered the chamber.

“Nothing. I was all packed and everything.” She gestured at the huge chest, no more than a third full, and at the clothes that were scattered all over the room. “Septa Mordane says I have to do it all over. My things weren’t properly folded, she says. A proper southron lady doesn’t just throw her clothes inside her chest like old rags, she says.”

“Is that what you did, little sister?”

“Well, they’re going to get all messed up anyway,” she said. “Who cares how they’re folded?”

“Septa Mordane,” Jon told her. “I don’t think she’d like Nymeria helping, either.” The she-wolf regarded him silently with her dark golden eyes. “It’s just as well. I have something for you to take with you, and it has to be packed very carefully.”

Her face lit up. “A present?”

“You could call it that. Close the door.”

Arya looked quickly out into the hall to check for passersby, then closed the door. “Nymeria, here. Guard,” she said, leaving her wolf outside to alert her of possible intruders.

When she turned around, Jon had unwrapped what was hidden in his rags. Arya’s eyes went wide. Dark eyes, like his. “A sword,” she said in a small, hushed breath.

He held the sword out to her. The scabbard was of supple grey leather, soft as sin. Jon drew out the blade slowly, so she could see the deep blue sheen of the steel. “This is no toy,” he told her, "so be careful you don’t cut yourself. The edges are sharp enough to shave with.”

“Girls don’t shave,” Arya said.

“Maybe they should. Have you ever seen the septa’s legs?”

She giggled at him. “It’s very skinny.”

“Just like you. I had Mikken make it especially for you. Bravos use swords like this in Braavos and Pentos and Myr and the other Free Cities. It won’t hack a man’s head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you’re fast enough.”

“I can be fast,” she said confidently. And she could be, she knew; Jon would fight her in the Godswood with wooden sticks occasionally, to show her how how use a sword properly, and she’d shown herself to be very fast, almost as fast as Jon.

“You’ll have to work at it every day.” He put the sword in her hands, showed her how to hold it, and stepped back. “How does it feel? Do you like the balance?”

“I think so,” Arya said. Though she’s have to test it more before she could say for certain, it felt somehow _right_ in her hands. It had a certain grace to it, one she enjoyed greatly.

“And remember what I’ve told you: stick ‘em with the pointy end,” said Jon, smiling.

Arya gave him a whap on the arm with the flat of her blade. Jon flinched, then started grinning like an idiot. “I know which end to use,” Arya said. A doubtful look crossed her face. “Septa Mordane will take it away from me.”

“Not if she doesn’t know you have it,” Jon said.

“Who will I practice with?”

“You’ll find someone,” Jon promised her. “King’s Landing is a true city, a thousand times the size of Winterfell. Until you find a partner, watch how they fight in the yard. Run, and ride, make yourself strong.”

“Alright. What if Sansa finds out?”

“She knows. I asked her what she thought of you having a sword. She said that you would love it, and promised not to tell anyone.”

Difficult though she could be, Sansa was sometimes such a blessing. 

Jon messed up her hair. “I will miss you, little sister.”

Arya found herself suddenly saddened. She felt as if she was going to cry, not something she did often. “I wish you were coming with us.”

“Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. Who knows? I better go. I’ll spend my first year on the Wall emptying chamber pots if I keep Uncle Ben waiting any longer.”

Arya ran to him for a last hug. “Put down the sword first,” Jon warned her, laughing. She set it aside on her bed and showered him with kisses.

When he turned back at the door, she was holding it again, trying it for balance. “I almost forgot,” he told her. “All the best swords have names.”

“Like Ice,” she said. She looked at the blade in her hand. “Does this have a name? Ooh, tell me!”

“Can’t you guess?” Jon teased. “Your very favorite thing.”

Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together:

“Needle!”

Arya would think about that moment many times during the long journey south.

 

 


	5. Departure (Sansa III)

Half the Stark household was leaving for the south. Jory Cassel, and his cousin Beth, Vayon Poole, the steward, and his daughter Jeyne, one of Sansa’s closer friends, Septa Mordane, and many members of Stark House Guard were all leaving with Father for King’s Landing. The whole procession, combined with that of the Royal Family’s, was like an endless river of steel and leather and gold pouring ceaselessly from Winterfell’s main gate.

Sansa would be joining that procession shortly, and seeing her Prince, but there was something she had to do first. Jon was not coming with her to the South, going instead to the Wall to take the black, and since she probably wouldn’t get to see him again for several years Sansa felt she had to say goodbye. She’d been in the room when Jon had said goodbye to Bran, and had thought to say hers there, but it hadn’t felt appropriate.

She and Father, who likewise intended to say goodbye to Jon, were riding to him and Uncle Benjen at the crossroads where the Kingsroad turned north. Jory Cassel and a couple of other guards accompanied the pair of Starks.

When Jon saw the two of them approaching, he stopped his horse and dismounted. Father followed, then Sansa.

“I wish you could come with us, Jon. I really do,” she said.

“I do too, sometimes. But I can’t, you know that. Besides, the Night’s Watch has a true place for me. I don’t have a proper one here.”

“You know that’s not true. I’m going to miss you, brother.” Sansa embraced him warmly.

“And I you, sister.”

When they’d broken the embrace and moved apart, Father approached. “There is great honour in serving in the Night’s Watch. The Starks have manned the Wall for thousands of years,” he said. “And you, my son, are a Stark. You may not have my name, but you have my blood."

After a moment of silence, Jon spoke. “Is my mother alive? Does she know about me? Where I am, where I’m going? Does she care?”

Father’s demeanour darkened, as it did invariably did when Jon’s mother was brought up. “The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother. I promise.”

Father gave Jon a final look over with a strange mixture of pride and sadness. He even smiled, which was something he did infrequently and even then only for family. Sansa smiled too.

The three of them were all mounted and returning to their respective parties when Sansa realised she’d forgotten something important. Turning about towards Jon as quickly as she could she went as fast as she felt capable (for horses were not her area of expertise) and managed to reach Jon.

“Wait!” she yelled.

Jon looked back to her silently.

“I have a gift for you,” she said. She withdrew from her saddlebag a pair of black fur gloves. On the backs of each of them, she had embroidered a pure snow white wolf with ruby-red eyes. She’d wanted to do something special, and giving him a reminder of family had seemed to be right.

When Jon took and examined the gloves, his widened. After a moment, he smiled brightly, more brightly than he had in a long time. “Thank you, Sansa,” he said.

“My Lady!” shouted Jory Cassel in the distance. “We must be going!”

Sansa wasn’t sure what to say, so she smiled herself, turned, and rode off back towards the main caravan. She prayed on her way that Jon would be happy where he was going.

 

 


	6. Capital Life (Arya III)

Arya had come to the capital expecting little, but was still disappointed. The city was a jumbled wash of dirty browns, sandy yellows, brick reds, and pink marble that almost exactly failed to please the eye, and very the air was so hot it made her skin sticky whenever she moved, and in the hot air the smells of half a million people's sweat and refuse permeated the air and invaded one's nostrils like an army of invisible demons. The people in the castle were unfriendly and unfamiliar, and the servants who she'd made friends of on the way south had all disappeared into the bowels of the castle or city outside. She'd spent most of her free time during the last two months searching for them, especially Mikah the butcher's boy, but to to avail.

Worse, Nymeria and Lady had been made to live outside the walls at the queen's insistence, and so could only be visited occasionally and under escort. Arya resented both the separation and the escort, but somehow the escort, usually members of Father's guard sometimes with goldcloaks mixed in, was the most insulting part. Nymeria would protect her fine, and nobody in their right mind would mistake Arya for a noble lady no matter how she dressed, likely leaving her to her business.

Of course, Sansa loved it all. She'd somehow managed to still not see how horrible the queen was, even after vigorously fighting against the queen's separating her from Lady. She had at least finally gotten in a furious row with Joffrey over it, because he'd finally spoken his mind around her about the 'terrible beasts' the sisters kept as pets and insisted that they be put down before reaching the city. She and the prince still weren't speaking.

Sansa also thrived off living around so many knights and lords and singers. It was a dream come true for her, Arya knew, and she tried to be happy that Sansa was happy, but it didn't make her incessant blabbering about what knight did what the other day any more bearable.

Sansa was sitting next to Jeyne and across from Arya during supper, and was talking on and on about some flower knight when Father entered the dining chamber. He'd been fighting with the council again; Arya could see it in his eyes. The expression of anger and frustration he wore had become so normal that it no longer surprised her to see it on her typically unshakable father. As usual, it brought him to supper late. The first course, a sticky sweet pumpkin-flavoured soup, had already been taken away when he arrived.

"My Lord," said Jory, as Father entered. He and the rest of Father's men all stood. To a man, they all wore new cloaks of grey, each clasped about the neck with a silver hand, marking them as both Stark men and watchers of the King's Hand. They numbered a scant fifty-five, which left the benches of the Small Hall, the smaller of the Red Keep's two major dining halls, largely empty.

"Be seated," Father said wearily. "I see you've started the meal without me. It's good to see some men in this city are blessed with sense still." With an offhanded gesture, he signaled for the meal to resume, and then sat down at the table containing Arya, Sansa, Vayon and Jeyne Poole, Jory, and the Septa. Servants promptly brought out the next course, a plate of savoury, garlicky boar ribs. Sansa went back to her story, talking to Jeyne about the knight of flowers.

"My Lord," said Jory, after a minute or so of quiet. "Word in the yard is there's to be a tourney. They say knights from all over the realm will come, in honour of your appointment as hand."

At his words, Arya perked up to pay attention. A tourney might be exciting, and it would get her out of the castle and its monotony. Sansa stopped dead in her story, her face aglow with excitement, her eyes as wide as wagon wheels. "A tourney," she breathed. This would, of course, be the most exciting thing in the world for her, after of course the King's visit.

Father, however, was obviously displeased. "And did they neglect to mention that a tourney is the last thing I would have wished?"

Before Jory could answer, Sansa interrupted them. "A tourney! Oh, Father, will we be allowed to attend?"

"You know how I feel on the matter," Father said, sighing. "I must arrange my friend Robert's games, but I needn't subject my daughters to his follies."

Sansa gave a huff. "Oh, please," she protested, "I want to see."

"Princess Myrcella will be there," Septa Mordane said, before Father could reply, "as will the prince, and most of the noble ladies of the court. They are old enough, and it would do them well to be among the royals. Besides which, it would be queer if your family were absent from a tourney in your honour."

Father gave another, longer sigh. "Very well. I shall arrange a place for you in the stands. And Arya as well."

"I don't want to sit with Joffrey!" Arya said, not realising until after that she'd shouted, leading to stares. "I don't want to sit with Joffrey," she said, managing a calmer tone, "and I don't want to sit with the queen or any ladies."

"You don't have to sit with them," said Sansa. "There are servants in the royal box, you can talk with them, I'm sure."

And while Arya probably would do just that, Sansa's words somehow hurt. Maybe it was the way she'd said servants with that dismissive tone of hers, as if Arya wasn't good enough for the royals which she wasn't, she knew.

"You're a lady, Arya," said Father, giving Sansa a brief, disapproving look. "Gods, you're near twelve. You need to start acting like a proper lady. I expect you to sit with the ladies, and not complain."

Suddenly, tears welled in her eyes. But she wouldn't cry. She hadn't for a long time. Father had said similar things before, but he'd never been so blunt, and never had they stung quite so sharply. It was reminiscent of a slap. _You're not going to be a child forever, Arya. You need to settle down around guests, Arya. You need to wear dresses more often, Arya. You need to learn stitching, Arya. It's necessary for a lady._ "Pray excuse me," she said, standing up, "I find my appetite weak this evening," and rushed out of the hall and back to her chamber as the sound of the Septa's disapproving voice filled the room.

There, she lay on the bed for what felt rather like several hours but couldn't have been more than a few minutes. She knew, deep in her heart of hearts, that Father was wrong. She couldn't be a lady. She'd tried, gods knew she'd tried. She'd put on dresses, she'd worn her proper slippers, put up her hair, clumsily danced the dances and tunelessly sung the songs, and tried her hand at every other ladylike pursuit as many times as she could conceivably attempt. None of it had taken.

And recently, as Sansa had started to look more than ever like a young woman, and especially since her marriage had been set, Arya had begun to worry that she would be sold off to some rich fat idiot lord because it was convenient. Sansa didn't see her betrothal as business, but Arya knew better. She hadn't been able to convince her sister, though: Sansa was too involved in the romance of it all, with the magic of marrying a beautiful golden prince. She still thought she loved him, too, despite her anger over Lady. Her sister's blindness sometimes beggared belief.

Jon would know what to do. He was always there for her, whenever life hurt. He never treated her like a lady, never expected her to be pretty and proper. With him, there were no disapproving stares from the Septa, no exasperated sighs of mother, no Jeyne's eyes rolling, no perfect, effortlessly flawless Sansa trying to correct her and show her to do things right.

Arya missed her brother terribly.

She had something to remind her of him, though. Buried deep in her great wooden chest, beneath all her clothes and shoes and books, was his final gift to her. At first almost unconsciously, Arya pulled her chest from under her bed, and began rifling through it for her treasure. Finally having withdrawn it, she whispered the name of her precious sword to herself. _Needle._

It was a beautiful sword, by any measure. It was lighter than a normal sword, a long, dark sliver of blue steel. Its guard wasn't a typical cross, but a mess of steel bars and wires, looking more like some strange silver insect that had been impaled on the sword.

As she was admiring it, a knocking came on the door. "What?" she shouted, hurrying to hide Needle. She shoved it under the bed.

"Arya?" came Father's voice. She went to the door, lifted the crossbar, and opened it for him. He looked tired, more so than before, as if a great weight hung on his shoulders, but his anger was gone. He was alone, thankfully. "May I come in?"

Arya nodded, and then cast her eyes down, her face suddenly hot. Her things were strewn about the room, tossed from aimlessly from her chest during her search. Father said nothing of it, but gave her a brief, reproachful look before entering. "We need to ta-" he began, but stopped mid-word. He was staring at the bed. "Whose sword is that?"

Arya's face flushed bright red. She hadn't hidden it well enough. "Mine," she said, and retrieved the sword from its resting place.

"Hand it here," Father said. Arya complied reluctantly, and wondered if this was the last she would ever see of it.  

Her father examined the blade in detail, looking up and down its length on both sides, and testing the point with his thumb, and let out a grunt when a bead of blood appeared. "This is a Bravo's blade, yet it seems I know its maker's mark. This is Mikken's work. How is it my daughter is being armed from my own forge, and I know nothing of it. How can I be expected to run seven kingdoms when I am so blind to the goings-on of my own household?" He let out a prolonged sigh. "How did you come to have a sword, Arya? Who gave it to you?"

Arya chewed her lip and said nothing. She would not betray Jon, not even to their father.

After a while, Father said, “I don’t suppose it matters, not truly.” He looked down gravely at the sword in his hands. “This is no toy for children, least of all for a girl. What would Septa Mordane say if she knew you were playing with swords?”

"I wasn't playing," Arya protested, "and I don't care what the Septa says."

"You've made that clear. Your mother and I have charged her with the impossible task of making you a lady." Her father looked from Arya to her sword. "I should just end this nonsense now, and break this over my knee."

"Needle wouldn't break," Arya said confidently.

"It has a name, does it? Oh, of course it does." Father gave her what she could only call a complicated smile. "Arya, child, there's a wildness in you. The wolf's blood, my father used to call it. Your aunt Lyanna had a touch of it, and your uncle Brandon more that a touch. To both, it brought nought but an early grave." He did not often speak of his family from before Robb was born. Arya could hear why from the pain in his voice. "You remind me much of her, you know. Lyanna. She might have carried a sword, if father allowed it."

"Everyone says Lyanna was beautiful," Arya said.

"She was. Beautiful, wild, and willful, and dead before her time." His gaze wandered back to the sword. "Arya, who do you hope to skewer with this... Needle? Septa Mordane? Prince Joffrey? Do you even know the first thing about sword fighting?"

Her mind went momentarily blank, and she blurted out the only thing she could remember, the one thing that Jon had told her. "Stick em with the pointy end."

Father let out a bark of laughter. "I do suppose that's the essence of it." His demeanour darkened noticeably after a moment. "I won't lie to you, Arya. We've come to a dangerous place. This is not Winterfell, and there are many who would do us harm. Your willfulness, your running off, your sharp words, your disobedience... these are the games of summer, and here in this place with winter fast upon us, we cannot afford to bicker and fall apart. It is time to begin growing up and sticking together. Remember, Arya, that when the cold winds blow and the long night falls, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." He proffered her the sword.

"Icankeepit?" Arya squeaked breathlessly, greedily snatching it out of his hand. "For true?"

"For true. Besides, if I tried to take it away, I'd find you'd stolen it back, or gotten hold of a morningstar and hidden it under your pillow." Mindful of the blade, Father embraced her gently, and Arya returned his hug with her own tight grasp.

Several days later, early in the morning of her and Sansa's twelfth nameday, Vayon Poole knocked on Arya's door, and had her report to the balcony overlooking the sea behind the small hall. There appeared to be nothing there when she arrived to greet the pre-dawn gray.

"You are late, boy," said an unfamiliar voice. Arya rounded to find a small, slim man staring at her. He had no hair on his head or face, and a nose so large and so beaky it may as well have been the whole bird. “Tomorrow you will be here at midday.”

“Who are you?” Arya asked.

“I am your dancing master. Tomorrow you will catch it. Now pick it up.”

The stick, as it turned out, was not a stick but a wooden sword, replete with grip and guard and pommel. It was weighted like one, too. Arya picked it up and held it out in front of her in both hands, as Jon had once shown her to do.

"That is not the way, boy. This is not a greatsword that is needing two hands to swing. You will take the blade in one hand.” His voice, she noticed now, was flavoured with the sounds of the east. A singer from Braavos once came to Winterfell a couple of years ago, and this man's accent was similar to his.

"Why?" she demanded, dropping her right hand from the sword. It was heavier than needle, uncomfortably so for one hand alone, but Arya wasn't about to let him think so.

"You must turn sideface, become smaller target, yes?" The foreigner moved to her and turned her to the side, so that only one arm leaned into the fight while the other faced away. "Yes, like so. Left is good, all is reversed to confuse enemy. You are skinny as a spear, you now. Make you hard to hit. Now the grip. Show me." She presented her hand. "No. Wrong. Grip must be gentle, not tight. Do not squeeze it so."

"But what if I drop it?"

"You will not drop it. A swordsman never drops. The steel must be part of your arm. Can you drop a part of your arm? Nine years, Syrio Forel was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos, he knows these things. Listen to him, boy.”

It was the third time he had called her 'boy.' “I’m a girl,” Arya objected.

“Boy, girl,” Syrio Forel said. “You are a sword, that is all.” He clicked his teeth together. “Just so, that is the grip. You are not holding a battle-axe, you are holding a-”

“--needle, “ Arya finished for him.

"Yes, just so," said the man, with a wicked smile. "Now we will begin the dance. Remember, child, this is not the iron dance of Westeros we are learning, the knight’s dance, hacking and hammering. No: this is the bravo’s dance, the water dance, swift and sudden. All men are made of water, do you know this? When you pierce them, the water leaks out and they die.” He took a step backward, raised his own wooden blade. “Now you will try to strike me."

Arya tried to strike him. She tried for most of three hours, until the sun was bright in the the sky and every muscle in her body was sore and aching and deep hunger plied at her belly, while Syrio Forel clicked his teeth together and told her what to do.

"Tomorrow," he said, when she was summoned to the Small Hall to break her fast, "our real work will begin." 

Not one of her past eleven namedays had ever been so sweet, and the day was new yet.  

 

 


End file.
